These Uncertainties
by burntsuns
Summary: When their car suffers a minor crash in the English countryside during heavy snowfall, Alfred and Arthur find shelter in an abandoned house in the county. A night alone together in a freezing house brings about more surprises than either of them expected.


**These Uncertainties** (Part 1)

Arthur/Alfred, pg-13 for swears and such – 5764 words. Human names used.

_When their car suffers a minor crash in the English countryside during heavy snowfall, Alfred and Arthur find shelter in an abandoned house in the county. And a night alone together in a freezing house brings about more surprises than either of them expected._

**A/N:** My first Healia fanfic. I had a lot of fun writing this, but I'm so inexperienced with the characters and the fandom, so I apologise in advance for any character or canon inaccuracies. It should be two or three chapters long.

* * *

"You're going the wrong way," said Arthur for what had to be the sixth time in about half an hour.

Alfred sighed, tightened his grip around the steering wheel and refused to look at his scowling companion sitting next to him in the passenger seat. "You keep saying that, but it's not like you even know the _right_ way. Which is dumb, by the way; this is _your _country."

"I can't see anything," said Arthur curtly. This was true; the thick covering of snow was making every road sign impossible to read. The heavy falling against the window, making the road in front of them nothing more than a grey-white blur, wasn't helping either. "And in any case," Arthur continued in that prissy way of his, folding his arms across his chest, "every direction I've given you has had you turning the wrong way."

"Hey, you're the one who needs to be clearer about your directions. You asked me to turn left and I turn left. Then you bitch at me about it being the _wrong left_. Geez."

"I was perfectly clear about where I wanted you to turn; you're just being impossible. I'm convinced you're doing this deliberately to torture me," Arthur said, and rather melodramatically so, Alfred thought.

Alfred rolled his eyes. He glanced down at the dashboard and noticed that they were still doing a meek fifteen miles per hour. They had been driving at between ten and twenty miles an hour down the same snow covered country road for about thirty minutes now. Alfred had actually managed to raise the bar and drive past twenty-five miles an hour for about five minutes, right up until Arthur complained and cursed loudly when Alfred momentarily lost control and the car almost slipped onto the other side of the road (and Alfred had definitely not also cursed and screamed a little when that happened, not at all). The snow was about eight inches deep, falling thick and fast, but showing no sign of stopping.

The sun was beginning to set, too, the first signs of stars were appearing, and Alfred was beginning to get worried he'd be spending all night stuck in this car with nothing but Arthur and the falling snow for company.

It had been stupid to come with Arthur, Alfred decided. He had been in London, visiting Arthur for a meeting, and the day before Alfred was due to be going back home, Arthur had told Alfred he was heading up to York for something – Alfred couldn't remember exactly what for; something political. But then his train had been cancelled because of the snow i(this country couldn't even handle a couple of inches of snow?)/i and he'd got all pissy about it, so Alfred had suggested, "Well, why not just drive?"

And Arthur had replied rather snippily, "No, don't be a fool, Alfred, the roads are horrendous. There is no way I can drive up there, you idiot."

So, Alfred had sworn to prove him wrong and insisted on driving them up to York.

Arthur had been against the whole thing, of course, even going as far as to tell Alfred, "I'll drive, fine, if that will shut you up – I'll risk my bloody life for some political affairs up north, but Alfred, you don't need to come along! You're going home tomorrow, remember?"

"Sure, I need to come!" Alfred had been quick to reply. "You could totally cheat and not drive all the way or something. You can't get out of this like that. And don't worry about me; I can go home the day after or something. I'm pretty sure my flight's delayed or cancelled or some shit anyway."

In the end, though not without argument, Arthur had had no choice but to allow Alfred to drive him there.

In all honesty, Alfred couldn't deny he'd been a bit worried about Arthur driving up to York on his own with the amount of snow and potential for traffic accidents all over this country. That might have been a _little_ to do with the reason he'd insisted on going. Not that he'd ever admit it to the pissy, old nation.

And so now they were driving down a windy road in… somewhere in England, and on their way to York (possibly; he was only half sure they were going in the right direction). Whether they'd make it, never mind make it by tomorrow, Alf red was not sure. It was supposed to be a three hour drive, but they'd been driving for almost six hours now and Alfred could see no end in sight.

"We'll have to take the next left turn," Arthur said shortly. "If we're lucky we might actually manage to get onto the M1, though no doubt it will be full of congested traffic and we'll still be no closer to getting out of this blasted car." He gave Alfred a withering look, as though it was _his_ fault Arthur's own stupid country couldn't handle a bit of snow, before shaking his head and looking out of the window.

Alfred watched him for a moment, watched the way he leaned his forehead against the window frame; he looked rather sleepy, and his eyes closed momentarily. Alfred traced his profile with his eyes; over his nose, his heavy, slanted eyebrows. His sandy hair, a mess, fell across his eyes. Alfred had the sudden, bizarre desire to reach out and wipe it away, a desire which he resolutely ignored. Then Arthur gave a heavy sigh, opened his eyes, and turned to Alfred. Alfred looked quickly back at the road.

"You're going to fast," Arthur said shortly, after glancing at the dashboard.

"Arthur, if we don't hurry the fuck up, we'll still be driving down this same road this time tomorrow," Alfred said impatiently.

"And if you don't slow the fuck down, we'll slide off this road, crash into a tree and be in a hospital this time tomorrow. And don't think I won't give you the repair bill for the car. Now, _slow down_," Arthur bit out.

"I'm not going to crash," Alfred insisted.

"With your driving, this snow and at that speed? I don't doubt you will."

Alfred bristled. "I'm an awesome driver!"

Arthur let out a frustrated groan, and looked like he was having a hard time forcing himself not to reach over and hit Alfred. "Slow down."

"Arthur, look, if I slow down anymore we'll never leave this stupid road, and I'd rather walk than be stuck in this damn car with you for–"

Except it was at that moment Alfred was interrupted by a sudden jolt as the car chose to skid sharply left, turning up onto the curb. America swore, and attempted to regain control of the car, but the vehicle was already moving off the road, and just as Alfred hit hard on the brakes there was a sound of metal against wood, and of crunching leaves, as the car went straight into the snow-covered hedge.

There was a brief quiet, in which neither of them seemed unable to say anything at all, only stare through the (now slightly cracked) window screen at the leaves and broken branches in front of them in utter shock. The only sound was of their heavy breathing, their quickened heartbeats.

Then Alfred let out a breath and cracked the silence with as much profanity as he could muster. "Shit! Fuck, fuck— oh, fucking-!"

"You_ idiot_," Arthur breathed as Alfred continued to swear loudly. "You're a complete _prat_. I told you-! What did I tell you? You fucking imbecile. Christ. Oh, you are a terrible, terrible–"

"Fuck— don't you call me a bad driver," Alfred bit out before Arthur could finish.

"Why not? You are. You just _crashed_ my car into a hedge, for fuck's sake! What on earth is wrong with you?"

"I didn't do it on purpose. It isn't my fault you Brits can't handle your fucking snow! I mean, there's barely seven inches, and your country comes to a complete stop! What's the deal with that anyway?"

"We don't usually get this much snow. Contrary to what you may think – our weather can be rather unpredictable," Arthur said angrily, ignoring America's eye roll. "Anyway, you can't turn this around on me. I told you to be careful, I told you to slow down! You never listen!"

Alfred gripped the steering wheel, and tried to swallow down the rage he felt as he listened to stupid Arthur's stupid voice. Instead of replying he attempted to restart the ignition to try and get them back on the road. But the engine only gave a pathetic stutter, before falling dead again. He tried again, with no luck. The car wouldn't start.

Alfred swore.

"Perfect. It gets better," was Arthur's sarcastic retort. There was a short silence.

Alfred swallowed, and shook his head, trying to calm down. He glanced at Arthur. "Are you okay?" he asked, because Arthur was being unusually quiet now and they _had_ just crashed into a hedge.

"Oh, you mean apart from having my car crashed into a hedgerow and sitting in said car with a complete idiot?" Arthur barked, and his tone alone was enough to reassure Alfred that he was just fine. "Positively dandy." There was a pause, and he leant back against his seat. "Are you?" he said then, in a slightly different voice.

"'Bout the same," Alfred muttered, rubbing a hand through his hair. He reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone, but one glance at the screen told him all he needed to know. "…shit. No signal here."

Arthur quickly grabbed his own phone from his pocket, only to curse loudly. "Mine phone's dead." He gave Alfred a deadly glare. "I hope you realise this is all your fault."

"My fault?" Alfred said, outraged. "You're the one that dragged us down this stupid country lane, down a road that hasn't even been salted! You told me to take the left back on the main road, and I did! And here we are. If anything, this is your fault. Your fault and your dumb country's fault."

Arthur gritted his teeth. "I told you to take the _second_ left, and you didn't. You never_ listen_ to me!"

"You did not tell me that!"

"Yes, I did!" Arthur yelled.

There was a chaste silence as the two nations glared at each other. Alfred would have very much liked to yell some more, but Arthur took that moment to turn away from Alfred, unbuckle his seatbelt and open the door. Before Alfred could ask what he was doing, Arthur had slammed shut his door and was walking away through the snow.

"Hey!" Alfred yelled. "You can't just leave! We're fighting here!" Quickly, he left the car, ignoring the biting cold that gripped him as soon as he opened the door, and ran to catch up with Arthur, who was already several yards away. He stopped when he heard Alfred approaching. "Where are you going?" Alfred asked, glaring at Arthur. "We can't walk to York."

"Sitting in that car, fighting over who got us into this situation was getting us nowhere," Arthur said quietly.

"So… you're gonna take a walk in the snow for a while instead?"

Arthur gave Alfred _that look_, that damned look Alfred hated that so clearly said, _You are an ignorant fool and I loathe to be in your presence. _Damn that look. And damn Arthur. The jerk. "No, I'm not," said Arthur quietly. "I'm looking for a village, or a house - anywhere. With any luck we can find someone we can borrow a phone call from someone."

"You sure?" asked Alfred. "You British never struck me as the friendliest lot–"

But Arthur looked up at him with such a scowl on his face right then that Alfred decided it might be best to shut up. He looked around them, but Alfred couldn't see any sign of a village, or any buildings at all. The road ahead looked like it went on for miles, and Alfred saw it curve left before disappearing. The falling snow was at least not as heavy as it had been, and their visibility was a little better.

Either side of the road were snow white fields, stretching out as far as Alfred could see and touching the white clouds at the horizon. They had not been tainted by anyone, and stretched like a clear white sea, blanched only by the few, tall white trees.

Despite the fact that it was dumb as hell, and kind of laughable, that Britain had come to such a complete stop because of a bit of snow, Alfred had to admit that the blanket of pure white covering the English countryside was… kind of beautiful.

"Do you see that?" asked Arthur, and at first Alfred thought he was talking about the beautiful white fields, but then he saw it, too. There was a building (a house?) standing alone in an field not far to their left.

"Yeah," said Alfred.

"Come on," murmured Arthur. He walked over to a gate in the hedge near their abandoned car and after hastily locking the car, Alfred followed with a sigh.

The snow in the field was thick, and Alfred was thankful for his boots as they began to trudge through it toward the building opposite. Alfred was almost sad to be disturbing the calmness of the white blanket that fell around them – right up until he tripped over and fell to his knees right into it.

And Arthur, the bastard, had the gall to laugh. "Oh, come on now, boy," he said once he'd caught Alfred's glare. "As if you wouldn't laugh at me."

Alfred balled his hand round a fistful snow. "Yeah," he admitted. And with a smirk, he threw snowball at Arthur. It hit him right on his left ear and gave he gave a rather unmanly scream. "You're right that. That is pretty funny," said Alfred with a snort.

"Bastard," said Arthur, rubbing his ear and glaring at Alfred.

Alfred got up to his feet. The knees of his pants were damp and he found himself much colder now. He'd just finished wiping down his pants when he looked up and saw Arthur was already halfway across the field, striding toward the building. Doing his best not to fall over again, Alfred hurried to catch up with him.

Arthur was standing a couple of metres away from the building by the time Alfred had caught up. Alfred wondered why he wasn't knocking on the door, asking to be let in and bother whoever was there; it was as he got closer he began to realise why.

"Oh," he said, standing beside Arthur.

It was an old country house, probably once grand and beautiful. Now, the windows were boarded up with wood, the paint was peeling, and overgrown moss covered the right side like a weedy prison. The snow seemed deeper here, but it looked like there had been no efforts by anyone to shovel the pathway leading to the front door. No footsteps in the snow either, except Alfred and Arthur's. It didn't look like anyone had lived there in months.

"Great," Alfred muttered. "So no one lives here?"

Arthur sighed and went over to the door. He hesitated for a moment before knocking twice. There was silence for a moment, and Arthur waited. No one came to greet him. Arthur knocked again.

Alfred came up beside him. "Dude," he said. "I don't think there's anyone home."

Arthur gave another heavy sigh. "So it would seem," he said. Then he scowled. "And don't call me that."

Alfred glanced back at their abandoned car, still sitting rather sadly at the side of the road across the snowy field. It was much darker now, and Alfred had almost lost sight of it. There were few streetlights around and he knew that sooner or later it would be difficult to see much of anything right in front of them. He looked back at the old house in front of them, and reached into his pocket for his phone. But there was still no signal. He waved the phone above his head for a moment, hoping for just _one lousy bar_.

"That's not going to help." Arthur rolled his eyes. Alfred couldn't see him, but he knew that was what the other nation was doing; he could hear it in his voice.

Alfred put his phone back in his pocket. "Maybe we can hitch a ride from someone," Alfred suggested, eyes on the road now.

"I haven't seen a single car pass down here except ours," said Arthur. "Simply because no one is daft enough to think it's drivable."

"Hey, you brought us here, man."

"I already told you I did not–" He stopped himself. "Oh, this is getting us nowhere."

Alfred shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. The snow was growing heavier again now, the air even colder, and as the sky darkened Alfred began to wonder where they would go from here. Would they eventual come across a phone booth if they walked along that road they'd just left? Fuck, would they even be able to _see_ a phone booth when the only light they seemed to have was from the stars and moon above them?

Next to Alfred, Arthur was staring up at the house. Then, after a little hesitation, he reached for the doorknob and opened the door. He seemed a little surprised the door was unlocked.

"Arthur, what are you doing?" said Alfred, alarmed. "That's someone's house!"

"No, it isn't. No one seems to live here now, do they?" Arthur turned back to him. "Look, it's either we take shelter in here, or we walk for miles in the dark and cold and _maybe_, if we're very lucky, come across a phone box or a village."

"But…" America glanced past the open door, into the house. He couldn't see much of anything; it was very dark. "Looks kinda creepy."

Arthur smirked. "Not _scared_ are you, Alfred?"

"No way!" said Alfred loudly. "Why would I be scared?"

Determined not to be seen as anything other than the god damned hero he was, Alfred barged past Arthur and entered the old house. The smell of dust and rotting wood hit him as soon as he reached the entrance. He couldn't see much. Opposite the door there was a staircase leading up to the second floor, and another door to his right leading further into the house. Alfred moved, more slowly and hesitantly than he perhaps would have liked, toward the door.

The floorboard creaked beneath him, and he almost jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder, when he was just metres away from the door. He yelped loudly.

"Relax," he heard Arthur say, his voice closer than Alfred expected, and right by his ear. He could feel Arthur's breath over his neck. "It's just me."

"Jesus, Arthur, you almost gave me a heart attack," Alfred muttered, calming his thumping hear and tell himself that no, he did _not_ just scream like a terrified child, not at all. He glanced at Arthur, but it was difficult to tell his expression in the dark. He could just make out his profile.

"Are you going to open that door or are we planning on spending the night out here now?" asked Arthur irritably when Alfred made no move to go into the next room, and Alfred realised he was staring.

Feeling his face a little warm (but definitely not blushing because Alfred never blushed, no way), the younger nation turned away from Arthur and opened the door. The next room wasn't quite as dark as the hallway, but was still very dim. The room seemed to have been a sitting room, though it didn't contain much; there was dusty television set in the corner, an empty fireplace and two large sofas.

The whole room was so still, silent and gloomy. Alfred felt a shiver that wasn't from the cold. "This was such a bad idea," he muttered. "It feels like we're trespassing or something."

"Hello? Anyone home?" he heard Arthur loudly ask the room behind him. When no answer came he turned to Alfred. "You see? No one lives here. But if you'd really rather go back out into the snow then by all means, go out and have a wander. I won't stop you." He walked further into the room, bending down to look at the coffee table in the middle of the room.

Sighing, Alfred went over to see if the light would switch on. It didn't, of course. Not that he'd really expected it to. There was a window opposite the door, the only window in the room that wasn't boarded up. A half-moon was visible in the darkening sky.

He turned back to Arthur to see the other nation searching through the draws of the coffee table. "What're you doing?" Alfred asked, but Arthur didn't reply, just continued riffling through the draws. Alfred called his name again, twice, but Arthur seemed intent on ignoring him.

What an asshole.

Alfred went over to the sofa, keeping his eyes trained around the dark corners of the room as though expecting something to jump out at him. He sat down and stared at the TV in the corner for a moment; it didn't look like it would work, of course, since there didn't seem to be any electricity, which was a shame because watching some TV (even if it was British TV, which was probably boring as hell) would be a good way to prove he didn't care that Arthur was _ignoring_ him. Not that he cared or felt he had to prove anything.

"Damn it," Arthur muttered, slamming the draw shut. Sighing, he stood back up and looked over at Alfred with a glare that made it obvious he clearly believed everything wrong in his life right then was all Alfred's fault.

Alfred thought about snapping at him, but stopped himself and settled for glaring back instead. "What were you looking for?" he asked.

"A lighter or some matches. Whoever lived here doesn't seem to have left much behind though," Arthur muttered.

"Oh." Here, Alfred grinned. "Well, I guess it's lucky I came prepared for such a crisis!" He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his lighter.

Arthur stared at him incredulously. "You git! Why didn't you tell me you had–?"

"I didn't know you wanted it. You never told me," Alfred said, eyebrows risen.

In response Arthur only snatched the lighter out of Alfred's hand and walked over to the mantelpiece where Alfred now noticed a couple of candles were standing.

After Arthur had lit them the room was at least a little brighter, though it was still freezing cold. Arthur bent down next to the fire. "Pass me those newspapers from the coffee table, would you? And help me get a fire started."

About fifteen minutes later Arthur and Alfred had managed to get a fire going. It wasn't a very good fire, Alfred had to admit. They'd managed to burn some of the wood that had boarded the windows after Alfred had pulled them down, but the fire was still flickering a little feebly.

The two nations sat down on the carpet next to the fire. Despite the flames it was still freezing cold and Alfred found himself shivering. "So," he said quietly. "I guess now we just wait for the snow to stop, huh?"

Arthur glanced at the window, where outside the snow continued to fall heavily. "It doesn't look like it will stop anytime soon. I think we'll have to wait here until morning."

"What, and sleep down here? We don't even have any blankets," Alfred pointed out.

"No," Arthur admitted. He frowned, staring into the small flames in the fireplace. There was silence for a moment. Alfred watched Arthur watch the flames. "I suppose there might be blankets upstairs, though. And beds."

"Upstairs?" Alfred repeated, ignoring the crack in his voice. He'd watched the movies; going further into an old abandoned house seemed like such a bad idea – of course, entering it in the first place was a pretty bad idea in itself, really.

Arthur glanced at Alfred. "Don't worry," he said. "I don't really fancy going up there either."

"Well, I _would_ go up there. I'm not afraid or anything," Alfred quickly assured him. "But, ah, you know, the people who lived here probably took their bed covers and stuff with them. There'd be no point going upstairs."

"Not afraid? Really?" Arthur smirked.

"No. Course not."

"Big creepy house in the middle of nowhere – that's where half your horror flicks take place, is it not?"

"Shut the fuck up, Arthur," Alfred said with a scowl, trying not to let on how much being in this place was bothering him. He wasn't afraid – well, maybe he was a little afraid, but anyone would be; they were alone in an abandoned house and no one knew they were here. And from the way Arthur was uneasily glancing around him every so often, Alfred had the feeling he was not alone in being afraid either.

There was silence again as the nations stared into the fire. Alfred sighed, and glanced up at Arthur. He looked contemplative, frowning into the fire with an odd, troubled expression. Alfred wondered what was on his mind.

"Alfred?" said Arthur after a moment in a strangely quiet voice.

"Yeah?"

"I was meaning to ask you…" Arthur began, but then trailed off, licking his lips, his head down, his eyes on the dirty green carpet. "I was wondering … That is, do you…" he began again. Then he frowned, and Alfred saw him fidget, looking uncomfortable.

Alfred couldn't deny he was surprised Arthur was letting himself get so obviously vulnerable. It was kind of endearing (endearing? Arthur? Wait, where had that come from-?). "What is it, old man?" Alfred asked with a grin.

Arthur looked up at Alfred for a long moment, and there was something in his expression- Alfred couldn't place it. He opened his mouth to speak; then, as if remembering himself, he blinked and looked quickly away. "Never mind."

Alfred frowned. "What is it? C'mon, don't leave me hangin' Artie." He forced himself to plaster a grin across his face. "You got something-"

Arthur looked up at him again, and his face was so deadly serious Alfred's grin immediately fell away with anything else he was going to say. "Do you hate me, Alfred?"

"Wh –what?" Alfred's eyes widened. He had not expected that at all. "Why – why would you think that?" he asked, surprised.

"It's just a question," said Arthur.

"Yeah, but… what kind of question is that? Why would–"

"Oh. Forget it. I shouldn't have asked." Arthur looked away.

"I…" Alfred trailed off and stared at him, utterly perplexed. Arthur would never usually be this honest and open with him, and Alfred realised with a jolt that this – whatever ithis/i was – must really be bothering Arthur. "I definitely don't hate you, Arthur," he said quietly, honestly, and knew without a doubt that it was true. Arthur was as annoying as hell, and a total jerk most of the time, but Alfred did not hate Arthur, could not hate him – maybe he had in the past, but any resentment or hate he'd felt towards Arthur for anything that had happened centuries before had faded to nothing now.

"Hmm." Arthur was staring at Alfred with a strange look in his eyes. Alfred couldn't figure it out.

"What brought this on, anyway?" Alfred asked. "You don't usually… I mean, did someone say something to you?"

"No, no," said Arthur quickly; perhaps a little too quickly. He looked away. "I was merely curious, Alfred. I… I don't know." He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't really care what you think of me, of course, but it would still be a… a shame if you felt so poorly towards me." He gave a smile, though it seemed false, odd on Arthur's lips. "It's no matter to me."

"You're my friend, Arthur," said Alfred seriously. "I can't hate friends."

Arthur seemed surprised. Perhaps Arthur didn't see him as a friend, Alfred suddenly thought with some embarrassment. He was always a bit of asshole, after all – just because they hung out now and then didn't mean they were _friends_, did it?

He tried to think of a way to take back what he'd said, but before he could he heard Arthur say softly, "Yes, friends. I'm glad we're friends." He turned away from Alfred again, looking back at the flames, his green eyes dancing in the firelight.

Alfred watched him. There was something in his expression, something like sadness or longing or disappointment – it was difficult to pinpoint; perhaps it was all three. He was smiling, but it was a sad smile. Alfred wondered what he was thinking about. He eyes traced over Arthur's profile, over the small lines around his eyes, his pale skin, his lips—

Arthur turned to face him, eyebrows bridging into a frown; perhaps he'd noticed Alfred staring— why was he staring anyway—?

And then, out of nowhere, Alfred had the sudden, overwhelming urge to lean forward and kiss Arthur. They were quite close. If he just bent his head down, just a little, their lips would meet and—

Alfred suddenly realised what he was about to do, and blinked; breath hitching slightly, he turned away, his heart thumping like a jackhammer.

His cheeks reddened as he began to really comprehend what he'd just been about to do – he wanted to kiss Arthur? He did. Had he seriously been about to—?

"Alfred?" Arthur said, sounding a little concerned. "What's the matter with you? You're shaking. I thought it had warmed a little. Are you still that cold?"

Alfred was not cold anymore; actually, the whole room seemed suddenly very, very warm. "What? I'm fine!" he quickly said as nonchalantly as possible, and pretended to scratch his cheek so Arthur wouldn't notice the fact that his face felt so hot it was practically _on fire_. He cleared his throat loudly, and looked away; at the fire, at the falling snow through the window, around the room, anywhere that wasn't Arthur, anywhere that wasn't Arthur's lips. "Uh…" Alfred cleared his throat again. "Maybe we should get ready to sleep or something," he said. He didn't look at Arthur; he stared at the leg of the sofa as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world, ignoring the fact he could feel the other nation's eyes on him.

"Oh. Well, maybe," came Arthur's voice. Alfred felt movement beside him as Arthur stood up, and moved away from the fire.

Alfred didn't look round to see what Arthur was doing; he stared straight ahead, thinking. Except thinking was never a good idea, because for all Arthur's claims he was an idiot who never thought before opening his mouth, there were times Alfred found himself thinking into things far too much. A thousand excuses for that momentary lapse of sanity in which he'd wanted to… kiss Arthur were already popping into his head: _He was hungry; it was giving him poor judgement. Arthur was just being a bit nicer than normal, and it had thrown him off. The talk of friendship had just left him craving attention a little more than usual. It was Arthur's fault – totally his fault. That bastard._

Alfred hadn't quite gotten a reason why that last excuse was plausible, but he was working on it and was pretty sure it was true. Alfred put a hand through his hair, breathing a deep sigh. This was ridiculous. He didn't want to kiss Arthur. Friend or not, Arthur was a complete jerk. An asshole, really. Alfred didn't know why he put up with him.

As if to reiterate this point, at that moment Arthur came up behind Alfred and hit him upside the head with a rolled up newspaper. "Hey!" Alfred turned to Arthur. "What the hell, Ar—?"

Arthur interrupted, "Are you deaf, you idiot? I asked you if you're hungry twice." He frowned at Alfred. "You were miles away."

"Oh, right," Alfred muttered. Arthur was still frowning at him, so he added, "Uh, yeah. I am kinda hungry. Guess there's no chance of a McDonalds 'round here though, huh?" He forced a laugh.

"No," said Arthur. "But I think there'll be a kitchen across the hall. There might be something canned we could eat."

Alfred groaned. "You're not gonna try and cook are you?"

Arthur glared. "What do you mean 'try and cook'? I _can_ cook!" He folded his arms, still glaring at Alfred. "Anyway, I don't think there's much chance of either of us cooking anything, to be honest. No doubt the gas won't work."

Alfred pulled a face. "So we have to eat it cold?"

"Yes, we'll have to eat it cold." Arthur rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you'll survive, Alfred," he said as he turned towards the door.

"Probably taste better than your cooking, at least," Alfred muttered under his breath.

"I heard that, wanker," barked Arthur.

Alfred rolled his eyes. Nope, no way in hell he'd want to kiss Arthur. He'd had a momentary loss of sanity, that was all.

That thought firmly in his mind, Alfred followed Arthur into the kitchen.


End file.
